Microfiction Monday – 31st Edition

Anyone who flies, throws boulders, or shoots lasers is trying to defuse the bomb or fighting the androids guarding it. Me? I create impervious, opaque, soundproof bubbles—so I grab the little girl and make one. She’s crying. I sneak a nip from my flask and realize there’s no way to know if the bomb went off or not. What if I drop the bubble and we’re surrounded by nerve gas and angry androids? I’m not much of a hero, but it’s time I at least try. I get her behind me, pull my handgun, and drop the damn bubble.

Their fingers intertwined, like the headphones each of them kept in their pockets for any single reason they left the house. They walked to the end of the platform, kissing goodbyes, planning to write to each other, get married and move somewhere with a white picket fence and have children. The whistle blew, one of them walked onto the train, sitting by the window for the cool ice to calm their thoughts by resting the forehead. The locomotive left the station, the only thing certain right then was its destination and that the two would never see each other again.

Today, my father was reduced from Mr. Shantanu Dasgupta to a body on the operating table. The pathologist and nurses tore him apart tissue by tissue, as if he was a piece of paper. They stitched him back together to present to the family, like the chef dressing the chicken for a patron at the restaurant. The clothes he wore were bundled in a dirty bag and handed over to me. The green shirt I gifted him for his birthday was now tinted crimson. I clutched the bundle and wept till I was seeped in the odor of his death.

Marie didn’t know why she could only sit at her desk in the study room after making sure that the bedspread had no wrinkles. If she saw a cushion misplaced on the sofa, she had to fluff and place it in its correct spot before she could focus on her work. So one day, when her husband stepped in the house with muddy shoes and hurtful words, throwing the porcelain dishware to the floor before slamming the door, all she could do was to sit down and gaze at her slippers lined up next to his beneath their bed.

There Once Was an Old Lady Who Lived in an Air Jordan
by Smith Q Johns

There once was an old lady who in an Air Jordan. She had so many children she put them up for adoption but not before getting rich on welfare. She eventually tried to sell her house to Ripley’s Believe it or Knot and then to Nike to no avail (liability issues). It was almost bought by a museum but they passed on it as it had lost its sole. It was then sold to a bunch of hipsters and they used it as venue where they got drunk and talked about how they hated breeders.